Toll the Hounds

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Kill all thugs.’

  Antsy tugged at his moustache. ‘Ain’t practical. There’s only three of us left – it’d take years.’

  ‘Kidnap the Guild Master and torture him or her to reveal the client. Then kill the client.’

  ‘Killing the client makes sense to us,’ Picker said, nodding. ‘The kidnapping thing doesn’t sound very feasible – we’d have to carve through a few hundred assassins to do it. Besides, we don’t know where the Guild Master’s hideout is. We could capture and torture an assassin to find that out, but they probably operate in cells which means whoever we get might not know a thing. The point is, we don’t know who the client is. We need to find out.’

  Raest said, ‘Your suspicion that the K’rul Temple is central to this matter is probably accurate. Determining the specifics, however, would best be served by enlisting the assistance of the Master of the Deck.’

  ‘That’s what we wanted in the first place!’ Antsy shouted.

  ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it?’

  Antsy glared up at the infuriating lich, bit down a few retorts that might prove unwise. He drew a deep breath to calm himself, and then said in a nice, quiet tone, ‘So let’s see if we can send him a message, shall we?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Raest said.

  Back into the corridor, turning right, five strides to a narrow door on the left that led into the squat round tower, up the spiral staircase, arriving into the upper level – a circular room with the walls bearing oversized painted renditions of the cards of the Deck of Dragons. Something twisted the eye in this chamber and Picker almost staggered.

  ‘Gods below,’ muttered Antsy. ‘This place is magicked – makes me sick to the stomach.’

  The images swirled, blurred, shifted in rippling waves that crossed from every conceivable direction, a clash of convergences inviting vertigo no matter where the eye turned. Picker found herself gasping. She squeezed shut her eyes, heard Antsy cursing as he backed out of the room.

  Raest’s dry voice drifted faintly into her head. ‘The flux has increased. There appears to be some manner of . . . deterioration. Even so, Corporal Picker, if you focus your mind and concentrate on Ganoes Paran, the efficacy of your will may prove sufficient to anchor in place the Master’s own card, which perhaps will awaken his attention. Unless of course he is otherwise engaged. Should your willpower prove unequal to the task, I am afraid that what remains of your sanity will be torn away. Your mind itself will be shredded by the maelstrom, leaving you a drooling wreck.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Such a state of being may not be desirable. Of course, should you achieve it, you will not care one way or the other, which you may consider a blessing.’

  ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘that’s just great. Give me a moment, will you?’

  She tugged from her memory the captain’s not unpleasant face, sought to fix it before her mind’s eye. Ganoes Paran, pay attention. Captain, wherever you are. This is Corporal Picker, in Darujhistan. Ganoes, I need to talk to you.

  She saw him now, framed as would a card be framed in the Deck of Dragons. She saw that he was wearing a uniform, that of the Malazan soldier he had once been – was that her memory, conjuring up her last sight of him? But no, he looked older. He looked beaten down, smeared in dust. Spatters of dried blood on his scarred leather jerkin. The scene behind him was one of smoke and ruination, the blasted remnants of rolling farmland, tracts defined by low stone walls, but nothing green in sight. She thought she could see bodies on that dead earth.

  Paran’s gaze seemed to sharpen on her. She saw his mouth move but no sound reached her.

  Ganoes! Captain – listen, just concentrate back on me.

  ‘—not the time, Corporal. We’ve landed in a mess. But listen, if you can get word to them, try. Warn them, Picker. Warn them off.’

  Captain – someone’s after the temple – K’rul’s Temple. Someone’s trying to kill us—

  ‘—jhistan can take care of itself, Pick. Baruk knows what to do – trust him. You need to find out who wants it. Talk to Kruppe. Talk to the Eel. But listen – pass on my warning, please.’

  Pass it on to who? Who are you talking about, Captain? And what was that about Kruppe?

  The image shredded before her eyes, and she felt something like claws tear into her mind. Screaming, she sought to reel back, pull away. The claws sank deeper, and all at once Picker realized that there was intent, there was malice. Something had arrived, and it wanted her.

  Shrieking, she felt herself being dragged forward, into a swirling madness, into the maw of something vast and hungry, something that wanted to feed on her. For a long, long time, until her soul was gone, devoured, until nothing of her was left.

  Pressure and darkness on all sides, ripping into her. She could not move.

  In the midst of the savage chaos, she felt and heard the arrival of a third presence, a force flowing like a beast to draw up near her – she sensed sudden attention, a cold-eyed regard, and a voice murmured close, ‘Not here. Not now. There were torcs once, that you carried. There was a debt, still unpaid. Not now. Not here.’

  The beast pounced.

  Whatever had grasped hold of Picker, whatever was now feeding on her, suddenly roared in pain, in fury, and the claws tore free, slashed against its new attacker.

  Snarls, the air trembling to thunder as two leviathans clashed.

  Dwarfed, forgotten, small as an ant, Picker crawled away, leaking out her life in a crimson trail. She was weeping, shivering in the aftermath of the thing’s feeding. It had been so . . . intractable, so horribly . . . indifferent. To who she was, to her right to her own life. My soul . . . my soul was . . . food. That’s all. Abyss below—

  She needed to find a way out. All round her chaos swarmed and shivered as the great forces battled on, there in her wake. She needed to tell Antsy things, important things. Kruppe. Baruk. And perhaps the most important detail of all. When they’d walked into the House, she had seen that the two bodies that had been lying on the floor on her last visit were gone. Gone. Two assassins, said Paran.

  And one of them was Vorcan.

  She’s in the city. She’s out there, Antsy—

  Concentrate! The room. In the tower – find the room—

  Crawling, weeping.

  Lost.

  Antsy loosed a dozen curses when Raest dragged Picker’s unconscious body on to the landing. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Alas,’ the Jaghut said, stepping back as Antsy fell to his knees beside the woman, ‘my warnings of the risk were insufficient.’

  As Antsy set his hand upon Picker’s brow he hissed and snatched it back. ‘She’s ice cold!’ ‘Yet her heart struggles on,’ Raest said.

  ‘Will she come back? Raest, you damned lich! Will she come back?’

  ‘I don’t know. She spoke, for a time, before the situation . . . changed. Presumably, she was speaking to Ganoes Paran.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Questions, for the most part. I was able, however, to glean a single name. Kruppe.’

  Antsy bared his teeth. He set his hand again upon her forehead. Slightly warmer? Possibly, or this time he’d been expecting it, making it less of a shock. Hard to tell which. ‘Help me get her back downstairs,’ he said.

  ‘Of course. And now, in return for my assistance, I will tell you what I seek from you.’

  He glared up at the Jaghut. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘This time, I am, Sergeant Antsy. I wish to have a cat.’

  A cat. ‘To eat?’

  ‘No, as a pet. It will have to be a dead cat, of course.

  Now, permit me to take her legs, whilst you take her arms.

  Perhaps some time before the hearth will revive her.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘No.’

  This had all been his idea, and now look at what had happened. ‘Picker,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘A white one,’ said Raest.

  ‘What?’
<
br />   ‘A white cat. A dead white cat, Sergeant.’

  Oh, aye, Raest. One stuffed lumpy with cussers. Here, catch, you damned bastard.

  Shit, we’re down to two now. Down to two . . .

  ‘Never bargain with the dead. They want what you have and will give you what they have to get it. Your life for their death. Being dead, of course, whatever life they grab hold of just ends up slipping through their bony fingers. So you both lose.’

  ‘That is rather generous of you, Hinter,’ said Baruk. ‘In fact, I do not recall you being so loquacious the last time we spoke.’

  The apparition stood within the door frame of the tower. ‘The struggle I face is between my desire to close my ghostly fingers about your throat, High Alchemist, and providing whatever service I can to this fair city. It must also be noted, the return of the Tyrant would also mark the end of what limited freedom I possess, for I would be quickly enslaved. And so, self-interest and altruism prove unlikely allies, yet sufficient to overwhelm my natural murderous urges.’

  ‘The debate is moot,’ Baruk replied, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on his stomach, ‘since I have no intention of coming within reach of your deadly grasp. No, I will remain here, in the yard.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Hinter replied. ‘I haven’t dusted in centuries.’

  ‘There are forces in the city,’ Baruk said after a moment, ‘formidable, unpredictable forces. The threat—’

  ‘Enough of that,’ Hinter cut in. ‘You know very well why most of those entities are in the city, since you invited them, High Alchemist. And as for the others on the way, well, few of those will surprise you much. They are . . . necessary. So, an end to your dissembling.’

  ‘Not all of what approaches is my doing,’ Baruk countered. ‘Were you aware that both Lady Envy and Sister Spite are here right now? The daughters of Draconus were not invited, not by me at any rate. One is bad enough, but both . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I fear they will leave the entire city a smouldering heap of ashes, given the chance.’

  ‘So do something to ensure that does not happen,’ Hinter said airily.

  ‘Any suggestions on that count?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Has either one paid you a visit?’

  ‘You strain my altruism, High Alchemist. Very well, of course Lady Envy has visited, and more than once.’

  ‘Does she know her sister is here?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘What does Envy want, Hinter?’

  ‘What she has always wanted, High Alchemist.’

  Baruk hissed under his breath and glanced away. ‘She can’t have it.’

  ‘Then I suggest you pay her sister a visit. She resides aboard—’

  ‘I know where she is, thank you. Now, have you heard of that self-proclaimed High Priest of the Crippled God who’s now squatting in an abandoned Temple of Fener? And leads a congregation growing by the day?’

  ‘No, I have not. But are you surprised?’

  ‘The Fallen God is a most unwelcome complication.’

  ‘The legacy of messing with things not yet fully understood – of course, those precipitous sorcerors all paid with their lives, which prevented everyone else from delivering the kind of punishment they truly deserved. Such things are most frustrating, don’t you think?’

  Baruk’s gaze narrowed on the ghost in the doorway.

  After a moment Hinter waved an ethereal hand. ‘So many . . . legacies.’

  ‘Point taken, Necromancer. As you can see, however, I am not one to evade responsibility.’

  ‘True, else you would have come within my reach long ago. Or, indeed, chosen a more subtle escape, as did your fellow . . . mages in the Cabal, the night Vorcan walked the shadows . . .’

  Baruk stared, and then sighed. ‘I have always wondered at the sudden incompetence displayed by my comrades that night. Granted, Vorcan’s skills were – are – impressive.’ And then he fell silent for a moment. And thought about certain matters. ‘Hinter, has Vorcan visited you?’

  ‘No. Why would she?’

  Baruk was suddenly chilled. ‘She made no effort at . . . discussing anything with me that night.’

  ‘Perhaps she knew how you would respond.’

  ‘As she would have for Derudan as well.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘But the others . . .’

  Hinter said nothing.

  Baruk felt sick inside. Matters had grown far too complicated in this city. Oh, he had known that they were walking a most narrow bridge, with the yawning abyss below whispering soft invitations of surrender. But it seemed the far end was ever dwindling, stretching away, almost lost in the mists. And every step he took seemed more tenuous than the last, as if at any moment the span beneath him might simply crumble into dust.

  He could understand those others in the Cabal and the sudden, perfect escape that Vorcan represented. And he recalled that flat promise in her eyes on that night long ago now – it still haunted him, the ease of her betrayal, as if the contract offered by the Malazan Empire had simply provided her with an excuse for doing something she had always wanted to do: murder every other mage in the Cabal.

  He might ask her why, but Vorcan was a woman who kept her own counsel. She owed him nothing and that had not changed.

  ‘You had better go now,’ Hinter said, cutting into his thoughts.

  He blinked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your silence is boring me, High Alchemist.’

  ‘My apologies, Hinter,’ Baruk replied. ‘One last thing, and then I will indeed leave. The risk of your enslavement is very real, and is not dependent on the actual return of the Tyrant – after all, there are agents in the city even now working towards that fell resurrection. They might well decide—’

  ‘And you imagine they might succeed, High Alchemist?’

  ‘It is a possibility, Hinter.’

  The ghost was silent for a time, and then said, ‘Your solution?’

  ‘I would set one of my watchers on your tower, Hinter. To voice the alarm should an attempt be made on you.’

  ‘You offer to intercede on my behalf, High Alchemist?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I accept, on condition that this does not indebt me to you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You would rather I remain . . . neutral, and this I understand. Better this than me as an enemy.’

  ‘You were once a most formidable sorceror—’

  ‘Rubbish. I was passable, and fatally careless. Still, neither of us would have me serving a most miserable cause. Send your watcher, then, but give me its name, lest I invite in the wrong servant.’

  ‘Chillbais.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hinter, ‘him.’

  As he made his way back to his estate, Baruk recalled his lone meeting with Vorcan, only a few nights after her awakening. She had entered the chamber with her usual feline grace. The wounds she had borne were long healed and she had found a new set of clothes, loose and elegant, that seemed at complete odds with her chosen profession.

  He had stood before the fireplace, and offered her a slight bow to hide a sudden tremble along his nerves. ‘Vorcan.’

  ‘I will not apologize,’ she said.

  ‘I did not ask you to.’

  ‘We have a problem, Baruk,’ she said, walking over to pour herself some wine, then facing him once more. ‘It is not a question of seeking prevention – we cannot stop what is coming. The issue is how we will position ourselves for that time.’

  ‘You mean, to ensure our continued survival.’

  A faint smile as she regarded him. ‘Survival is not in question. We three left in the Cabal will be needed. As we were once, as we will be again. I am speaking more of our, shall we say, level of comfort.’

  Anger flared within Baruk then. ‘Comfort? What value that when we have ceased to be free?’

  She snorted. ‘Freedom is ever the loudest postulation among the indolent. And let’s face it, Baruk, we are indole
nt. And now, suddenly, we face the end to that. Tragedy!’ Her gaze hardened. ‘I mean to remain in my privileged state—’

  ‘As Mistress of the Assassins’ Guild? Vorcan, there will be no need for such a Guild, no room for it.’

  ‘Never mind the Guild. I am not interested in the Guild. It served a function of the city, a bureaucratic mechanism. Its days are fast dwindling in number.’

  ‘Is that why you sent your daughter away?’

  A flicker of true annoyance in her eyes, and she looked away. ‘My reasons are not of your concern in that matter, High Alchemist.’ Her tone added, And it’s none of your business, old man.

  ‘What role, then,’ Baruk asked, ‘do you envision for yourself in this new Darujhistan?’

  ‘A quiet one,’ she replied.

  Yes, quiet as a viper in the grass. ‘Until such time, I imagine, as you see an opportunity.’

  She drained her wine and set down the goblet. ‘We are understood, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose we are.’

  ‘Do inform Derudan.’

  ‘I shall.’

  And she left.

  The recollection left a sour taste in Baruk’s mouth. Was she aware of the other convergences fast closing on Darujhistan? Did she even care? Well, she wasn’t the only one who could be coy. One thing he had gleaned from that night of murder years ago: Vorcan had, somehow, guessed what was on its way. Even back then, she had begun her preparations . . . all to ensure her level of comfort. Sending her daughter away, extricating herself from the Guild. And visiting her version of mercy upon the others in the Cabal. And if she’d got her way, she would now be the only one left alive.

  Think hard on that, Baruk, in the light of her professed intentions. Her desire to position herself.

  Might she try again?

  He realized he was no longer sure she wouldn’t.

  This is the moment for mirrors, and surely that must be understood by now. Polished, with the barest of ripples to twist the reflection, to make what one faces both familiar and subtly altered. Eyes locked, recognition unfolding, quiet horrors flowering. What looks upon you here, now, does not mock, denies the cogent wink, and would lead you by a dry and cool hand across the cold clay floor of the soul.